Footprints

I have come far enough ashore that my footprints no longer wash away, but not so far that they are but holes I dig with the shovels of my feet, holes filling every moment with sands spilling in from all sides. It is the perfect spot on which to stand, my toes cool in the wet clay of an undiscovered country that I will now call my own.

That I will call my own, though it is not.

Oh, wouldn't it be better — so much better — if I could see what would be so plain to me, if only I had the wisdom to look back instead of the audacity to always move forward? Oh, wouldn't it be better if I could see the tides changing, if I could imagine all the feet that had walked these shores before me, ten million toes swept away? Oh, wouldn't it be better if I understood, as they did, that I belonged to this world, that it didn't belong to me?

Perhaps, but I don't. And I can't. And I will not.

This land is my land. This land is your land. This land was made for you and me.

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